


Mamounia

by Savageandwise



Series: Drabbles: We Will Never Be Here Again [3]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Escape, LSD use, M/M, McLennon, Morocco - Freeform, Work of fiction, also supernatural stuff, december 1967, not reality, trippiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 22:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: December 31st, 1967 Paul was with George and Ringo at Cilla Black's New Year's party. John was in Morocco with Cynthia. So why did John Hopkins say he saw Lennon and McCartney there flat on their backs and unable to speak?





	Mamounia

**Author's Note:**

> The word was "escape"
> 
> I am fascinated by this inconsistency. Was Paul in Morocco after all? Or was Hopkins mistaken? This is my take on it. 
> 
> The title means 'Safe Haven.' It's the name of the hotel Linda and Paul stayed at in Morocco in 1973. It's also the title of a song of Paul's that in my opinion is about John. (Mamunia)
> 
> And yes. They're on acid.

When he comes on he is weightless. A speck of dust on the wind. A feather. The breeze carries him everywhere at once. All he has to do is let go. This lightness is freedom. This blankness. The world is a canvas he can paint as he pleases. Clay to twist into any shape. He can have anything he wants and he chooses John. 

He's rooted to the ground when the acid sparks in his brain. He reaches out far and wide, his green vines snaking through the soil, under the ocean. He's connected to everything. He doesn't have to leave this spot to reach Paul, pull him close. 

The clock hasn't struck midnight yet in this place. Paul weaves through crowds of scantily clad party guests and clouds of perfumed smoke. He spots him almost at once. John always shines as though he’s lit from the inside. Everyone else is dull in comparison. Paul lies down beside him on the cool, blue mosaic floor. They look into each other's eyes, eyeball to eyeball.

“That man over there can see us,” Paul whispers.

“Impossible. You aren't even really here. You're in England with your new fiancée.”

“I'm here,” Paul says.

“I'm your escape plan,” John says, pride threaded with resentment. 

Paul is his darkness and his light. His compass to sail by. John wants to pull open his very being and drag him inside. He wants them soul against soul.

Someone beckons to John enthusiastically. They're counting down: _9, 8, 7, 6._ Like they're preparing launch into space. He ignores them. _5, 4, 3, 2, Happy New Year!_ John and Paul are tangled up in each other, safe in a place beyond midnight, where stars rain down instead of confetti. 

“You’re my harbour,” Paul says. “You are my safe haven.”


End file.
